


the one who's got a hold on me

by jdphoenix



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/F, Gen, Mildly Dubious Consent, Multi, Season/Series 05, Threesome, Unhappy Ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-02
Updated: 2018-09-02
Packaged: 2019-07-05 17:18:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,829
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15868167
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jdphoenix/pseuds/jdphoenix
Summary: After months of searching for a way back to their own time (with no success) Jemma discovers the team's priorities have changed.





	the one who's got a hold on me

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Zara Larsson's "Ain't My Fault."
> 
> Be sure to check the tags as there's some consent issues.

Jemma lets out a very undignified sound of frustration, throwing her pencil down. It rolls into the space between the desk and the wall, which is perfect. Just. Perfect. Because the desk—little more than a sheet of metal screwed to the wall—is impossible to move and getting the pencil out of that tiny crack never takes less than half an hour of struggle and negotiation.

She groans.

“Something wrong?” Daisy asks.

Daisy! She’s often out, mingling with the general population and exploring the Lighthouse, but she’s here now, which means she can simply quake the precious pencil—Jemma’s last as no one’s managed to find another yet—free.

She spins on her seat, suddenly eager for the chance to get back to work despite all her frustrations, only to fall silent before she even says a word. There’s a naked man coming out of Daisy’s room. Which is also Jemma’s room, not that she spends much time there while there’s work to be done.

“Who is that?” Jemma asks.

Daisy spares the man barely a glance, apparently too comfortable in her sprawl on the couch to bother with more. “Val. Or Vin. Something with a V.”

“He’s naked,” Jemma says. It seems to bear mentioning.

“Helps with the sex-having.”

“Daisy!” She’s equally shocked at Daisy’s behavior and surprised at herself. How did she miss Daisy bringing a man in and all that surely followed? Has she really been working that hard?

The answer is yes. Jemma’s spent nearly all of her time since they arrived hunched over her little desk, struggling to find them a means of returning home. She can’t remember the last time she made a food run for the team or even, now she thinks of it, got up to take something from the cupboards.

Acknowledged, hunger grips her stomach tight. She shifts to the couch beside Daisy so she can grab a stray nutrition bar from where it rests on the cushions. She tears it open and nibbles at it delicately while Daisy scowls at her.

“When did you become a prude?” Daisy’s eyes light up as quickly as they darkened. “Or do you want him? He’s hot, right?”

Jemma can’t help but throw a glance at Val or Vin or whoever he is. He’s been idling around the common area, searching through their cupboards, and now he’s found a bowl of nutrition pellets—personally, if Jemma has to eat the processed muck that passes for food around here, she prefers the bars as they make her feel less like a dog, but Val-or-Vin munches on the pellets like they’re popcorn so she supposes there’s something for everyone. 

His casual invasion of the apartment is little surprise. When they first arrived in this future, they had only to take an available set of rooms for themselves and no one argued the point. And, after a day or two of Mack hovering in the door, always claiming that all beds were full, attempts by random passersby to take on fell off almost entirely. There’s still the odd occasion of someone wandering in when no one’s there to notice, which is why they keep the bedroom at the back forever barred, but none of it is antagonistic. In this society people simply sleep wherever they will with little regard for personal spaces outside of the rare family unit. Val-or-Vin probably considers pilfering their food the natural consequence of an hour’s fun.

“You can have him,” Daisy goes on.

“No, I do not want him,” Jemma snaps. “First of all, there’s Fitz-”

Daisy rolls her eyes. “Fitz,” she mutters in a dismissive sort of way that Jemma doesn’t like at all.

So she barrels on rather than dwell on it. “-and secondly, I would never take up with a man you were sleeping with.”

Daisy snorts. “We’re not ‘sleeping together.’ I don’t even know his _name_. He was just a little fun.”

Jemma balks.

“Oh, come on. It’s what they do here!” She gestures to the door open to the hallway. To prove her point, a couple is occupied a stone’s throw away, hardly any more discrete than Val-or-Vin is being. “When in Rome and all that.”

Jemma hisses in a breath of frustration. She leans close, not particularly worried that their guest will even notice her words, but too polite to say them aloud in his hearing. “This is a primitive society,” she says. “It’s like taking advantage.”

“They live in _space_.”

Jemma shakes her head. Granted, these people live on what amounts to a space station on the side of an asteroid, but it’s clear that society has declined since the Earth’s destruction. These people have no drive, no purpose. Every once in a while a couple will pair off and request a child, which is subsequently delivered to them by the shadowy maintenance workers who hover around every corner, but that’s about the extent of it. Life here is little more than floating from one night’s mass celebration to the next. Food comes freely from the dispensers in the central depots and any hoarding seems mostly to be done more out of laziness than preparation. 

“They’re diminishing,” Jemma says. “It’s a miracle there’s no violence-” the one fist fight Jemma’s seen on her rare forays out ended as soon as it began, with both parties appearing too bored to carry on- “but that doesn’t change how far society’s fallen. There’s no innovation, no striving to be better.”

“No science, you mean,” Daisy says dismissively. She nods to Val-or-Vin. “These people are happy. What’s wrong with that?”

“Like you were happy with Hive?” The words are out before Jemma can stop them. She gasps in a breath and buries her face in her hands before she can see Daisy’s reaction. “Sorry. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that. I’ve been working too hard, I think.” It’s a lame excuse but it’s the truth. She hardly leaves their rooms, hardly even turns away from her meager desk and her pages of notes and theories. When she sleeps, it never feels like enough, and as soon as she starts up her work again she’s plagued with an ever-present headache. “It’s hard to think,” she says pitiably.

“So stop thinking,” Daisy says. Her hand moves over Jemma’s back, providing comfort she doesn’t deserve. “You’re always working. Party’s still going, why don’t you come loosen up?”

As the Lighthouse’s daily parties tend to be little more than excuses to pick up individuals like Val-or-Vin, Jemma thinks not.

“Or you could loosen up right here.” Daisy’s offer is made plain by the hand that slides over Jemma’s thigh.

She starts, sitting up ram-rod straight. “What are you doing?”

Daisy inches closer, leaning into her space, her hand still present on Jemma’s leg. “Having fun. You should try it.”

Jemma is aware that, for the first time, Val-or-Vin has taken notice of them. He’s still munching on his pellets, but his eyes are fixed on the two of them like they’re some cheap porno.

“Daisy,” Jemma says slowly, “I’m with Fitz.”

Daisy groans, falling away from her to splay herself dramatically over her end of the worn couch.

Jemma stands, brushing off her legs to erase the memory of Daisy’s touch and the shiver of warmth it sent through her. “I think you had better sleep off whatever it is you took at that party,” she says. “We’ll be going home soon-” she hopes; if she can ever figure out how to reverse engineer the monolith’s effects- “and I doubt either of us will want to explain to him if we had the sort of ‘fun’ you’re talking about.”

“He’d probably love it,” Daisy mutters, and Jemma chooses not to hear her.

“We’re going to fix this world,” she says, no longer caring if Val-or-Vin hears—he’s not likely to understand what he’s hearing anyway, no one here seems inclined to think about anything beyond their immediate gratification. “When we go back-”

“Why?” Daisy cuts in. “Why do you want to fix anything? Why do you even want to _go_ back? No one else does.”

Everyone’s given up, she means. It’s been months and Jemma’s no closer to finding them a way home than she was the day they arrived. They’re all losing faith in her, losing hope.

Coulson and May she can understand. May’s been able to go out a time or two, but for the most part she remains locked up with Coulson, who is most definitely older than anyone else here. As innocent as this society appears, it’s obvious that its members are considered superfluous after a certain age and subsequently removed to prevent them becoming a burden.

And just the other day she heard Mack and Elena discussing the process of requesting a child. It  _sounded_ like nothing but idle chatter but their interest was a little too keen for Jemma’s liking. 

They’re all making the best of things here, even Daisy; that’s the cause for her time with Val-or-Vin and her coming onto Jemma just now. As she said, when in Rome. It’s likely easier than trying to hold onto a self that has no place in this world.

Jemma sighs, guilt weighing her down and sweeping her anger away. As their guest abandoned them entirely—along with any clothes he may or may not have arrived in—when it became clear there would be no show on offer, Jemma doesn’t hesitate to ask, “My pencil’s fallen behind the desk. Would you mind quaking it free?”

“Can’t,” Daisy says. It’s not a petty refusal though, it’s a simple statement of fact.

“Why not?” She darts a glance to the door but the couple has moved off and, with them at the end of the hall, they’d know if anyone were loitering near enough to notice.

Daisy turns her head away and lifts her hair, giving Jemma a clear view of something large and metallic poking out of her skin near where her skull meets her spine.

“What the-” Jemma sits heavily beside her, probing the area carefully with her fingers.

“It’s fine,” Daisy says, dropping her hair. “It just stops me using my powers.”

“‘Just’?” Jemma echoes. Daisy loves her powers, they’re her connection to her mother’s people. She’s always been fiercely protective of them.

“Yeah. It was dangerous having them on the station so one of the maintenance workers took me downstairs, put me under, and when I woke up this was here. No biggie.”

Jemma repeats the words in her head after they’re said. Not once but twice. And no, there is no hint of quiet rebellion in them. Daisy isn’t saying these words simply out of fear someone will be listening. She means them. And for some reason she never mentioned this encounter to the rest of them.

“There’s something wrong,” Jemma says.

“What?” Daisy’s obvious confusion is the final proof. She doesn’t even suspect that what she’s said would be the cause for Jemma’s worry.

Jemma stands. Perhaps a little too quickly. “Nothing. I- I’ve been working too hard, as I said, that’s all.” She can’t go to Coulson and May, not while Daisy’s in the apartment. Mack and Elena are out. She’ll find them. “I need some air.”

“We’re in space,” Daisy says wryly.

“All the same,” Jemma says, making an attempt at a smile. It’s difficult, the lying. She’s grown much better at it, good enough to do a spur of the moment con, but somehow now she feels like she’s trying to lie to Sitwell about her presence in a restricted area.

Daisy doesn’t notice. She only grins lecherously. “Right. Air. If he’s really cute, you could always bring some  _air_ home to me.” She waves her fingers, stretching out on the couch for what Jemma assumes will be a nap.

Good. It gives her more time to find Mack and Elena.

The party is winding down by this time. People are seeking out beds—either shared or alone—or simply falling along the edges of hallways. Jemma admits there’s something appealing about it. No one fears attack and while an odd individual might wander into an occupied bed, it doesn’t seem there’s any difficulty getting them to leave if they’re unwanted.

But it _isn’t_ appealing, she thinks firmly. These people are barely more than children, living hand-to-mouth, caring for little beyond the pleasure of the moment, and provided for by a largely unseen force pulling the strings from the lower levels. For all the freedom they exercise with their hedonistic lifestyle, in reality they have almost no control of their own lives. And they don’t even _care_.

One of the maintenance workers stands guard at a lift, not so much guarding against unauthorized entry as preventing anyone wandering into danger—a real possibility given the mass of dancers that have wandered so far from the main event. If they’re not wanted down here, whoever’s in charge really ought to keep the music from playing so loudly here; it’s making Jemma’s teeth vibrate. 

The visor obscuring the worker’s face turns to regard her and she feels suddenly exposed, gripped by fear that what she’s thinking is showing on her face. Even knowing that’s impossible, she can’t deny she doesn’t belong here. Where Daisy’s taken to wearing the small tops and shorts most favor, Jemma still wears her jeans and t-shirt. She stands out like a sore thumb.

Reluctantly, she presses into the crowd rather than dodging around it, allows herself to be swept up in the mess of bodies. Hands stray freely here, finding her curves, and she has to reach out in return to keep from being knocked off her feet. The passing touches, there and gone, remind her of Daisy and she has a fleeting thought for where that might have gone if she hadn’t spooked.

She shakes herself, and finds in the process she barely misses a kiss from the man holding her hips. His lips land on her neck instead and for a moment she’s lost in her body and the pain-pleasure of his sucking in time with the music clouding up her head. Then there are other hands, spinning her away into another body. She grips a broad shoulder while her free hand finds a feminine hip. She uses it to anchor herself away, lands against a woman who grinds against her before she’s pulled away again.

She doesn’t know how many people she passes between, how many strangers hold her intimately by the time she stumbles, dazed, from the crowd. She knows that her neck stings and her lips tingle, and that heat she felt with Daisy is more pronounced now.

Daisy. She’s here to find Mack and Elena. She remembers now. She rushes down the hall, away from the dance-orgy and the music, hoping some distance will help her bring her thoughts into line. She can still hear the pulsing beat, still feel it in the pounding of her own heart. She runs faster.

Her suspicions are only growing more pronounced now and she’s afraid of the conclusion her evidence points to. But Jemma’s never been one to hide from uncomfortable truths and, after the music dies away, turns her feet towards the depot.

Bodies litter the floor here, most already long asleep. A few are squatting near the food dispensers, not bothered at all that the pellets they’re eating come from a pile on the floor. Jemma tries and fails not to think of her white rats.

She’s just about to turn away, maybe circle back towards the apartment in hopes of finding Mack and Elena before they get there, when she spots them. Mack is sitting with his back to the wall, Elena cradled against his chest. They’re not asleep, not yet, but it’s clear they have no plans on returning to their own beds for the night.

Jemma’s stomach cramps with fear, made worse when Elena arches up to plant a kiss on Mack’s lips. Her hair is tied back and it’s easy to see, even from this distance, the shine of metal in her neck. An implant.

With stilted steps, Jemma makes her way over prone bodies to the nearest wall. She sits against it, only realizing thanks to the chill of the metal that she lost her shirt to one of the dancers. Feeling exposed again, she wraps her arms across her chest, one down to her hip and the other to cover the bruising love bite on her neck. And she waits.

It isn’t long before Mack and Elena go still, but Jemma waits another hour at least until even those eating at the far end of the depot have fallen asleep. _On_ the piles of food, of course. Likely no one will think twice about eating any of that either. In fact, Jemma wonders if she’s eaten it. The others bring her nearly all her food, there’s no telling how much they still care.

When no one at all has moved in a very long time, Jemma stands again. She picks her way across the room to Mack and Elena’s side. They’re dressed like everyone else. Mack in a shirt that might be too small and short pants that definitely are. Elena in a top that’s little more than Jemma’s bra and a skirt that is actually quite conservative, except that, lying the way she is, the slit exposes her legs completely.

Jemma covers her up before looking to the implant.

It’s just like Daisy’s. Same metal, same shape, same etching on the side.

She draws in a shaky breath before leaning over Mack, pressing her head into the wall to see the back of his head. No implant. So it’s possible it really is due to their powers.

It’s not a comfort. Not given Mack’s seeming carelessness with sleeping wherever he falls and Jemma’s own actions earlier.

That was the first time she’s lost track of her thoughts so completely, but it isn’t the first time she’s found it difficult to reign them back in. She thought it was the strain of her work, weighing on her the same way their circumstances have weighed on all of them. But what if it’s not? Not her work and not their circumstances at all.

Jemma leaves the depot. By now the halls are quiet, only the occasional sounds of more fun from the rooms Jemma passes, but even those are tapering off.

It’s easy to return to their apartments. Daisy is, as expected, sleeping on the couch, leaving their room open to a pair of men who are too busy with each other to notice Jemma as she grabs the box from beneath Daisy’s bed. In it are some of Mack’s inventions. Tools, mostly weapons in case they ever have to defend Coulson and May or make an escape.

He spent every day working on these when they first arrived, scrounging for materials and testing his work. Jemma can’t remember the last time she saw him so much as pick one up.

Lucky for her, abandoned they may be, but the weapons still work. She has only to return to the lift and finds the maintenance worker precisely where she left him. Or maybe he’s another one; she wouldn’t be able to tell with the visors.

She slows her steps, drags her feet along the floor in a drunken sway. Or she tries. The movements are too deliberate, too steady. She first hums, then sings the wordless tune of the music that swept her away earlier, trying to hide her sobriety, and finds it becomes slowly easier. The _music_ makes it easier, even when it’s not really playing.

She fights down the fear that would ruin her deception and stumbles into the worker. He steadies her with no trouble at all and she presses a hand to his chest. Electricity shoots through him, sending her flying back thanks to his hands on her hips.

The jolt—to say nothing of the pain of slamming into a wall—hurts, but it’s worth it. The worker is down, unmoving.

Jemma smiles as she removes Mack’s makeshift joy buzzer. It was inspired by stories she told him to pass the time after their arrival, during late nights when the partying was too loud to ignore and they were all too fearful to sleep. He was proud of Fitz’s attempt on Garrett’s life and made this in hopes of showing it to Fitz when they returned home.

He still will, Jemma promises herself. And, that in mind, moves on to the next phase of her plan.

It’s more difficult than she anticipated to remove the worker’s clothes. At first she thinks the electricity has seized up his muscles, but when she finally pries the helmet from his head, she discovers the true reason: he’s not a man, but a robot.

When she finally has him undressed, there’s no denying the truth. He’s an LMD. 

She swallows down a wave of nausea. “Worse and worse.”

She hoped the sound of her own voice would comfort her, but in the quiet the tiny whisper is too loud and leaves her itching to get out of here.

She works as quickly as she’s able, pulling on the too-large clothes over what she’s already—what she’s still—wearing. She’s several inches shorter than the LMD—likely exactly the same amount shorter than every single one of them now she knows they’re all robots—but hopefully this will be enough of a disguise to get her where she needs to go.

The lifts can be accessed by anyone and she drags the body onto it, stowing it on the side, hopefully out of sight. After that, all it takes is a single swipe of the LMD’s access card and she’s sinking down into the bowels of the Lighthouse.

Her heart, unfortunately, seems to stay upstairs, leaving her with an empty hollow in her chest and a churning gut.

The car sails straight down past the quieter levels populated by those who have made the transition into parenthood before easing to a stop between the nurseries—human and plant—which keep this society growing. If any of this can be called growth.

On this level the food is processed. If what Jemma thinks is occurring, she’ll find proof here.

There are more of the LMD workers here, these without the clothes and helmets to hide their robotic interiors. Jemma moves among them, keenly aware of the way her boots squeak beneath pants so long they drag on the metal floor. Still, she is not stopped, even when she takes an unoccupied station. The lift card grants her access to the computer terminal as well and she pulls up files on the food production.

It’s all there. Harvesting. Processing. Dispensation. The drugs, unexpectedly, are added in the processing stage. It’s a finely tuned cocktail and the effects are cumulative. But then they’d have to be. You can’t give everyone the same dosage and expect the same results, but if the body is allowed time to accommodate itself to the drug, it can build up in the system until even a little more is enough to maintain the effect.

It’s diabolical, really.

A hand wraps around Jemma’s arm, tugging her away. Before she can do more than stumble into her LMD attacker—she’s reminded of the dance, of falling from one extreme into another—a second hand closes around her other arm. Her helmet and visor are removed and allowed to clatter to the floor.

“No!” she cries. “Let me go!” She makes a vain attempt at struggle, but all it gets her is lifted clean off her feet.

Around her, work continues unimpeded. None of the LMDs even bother to lift their heads as she’s carried from the room and into the lift.

Down again, this time to the lowest level. Here the walls are stone and she’s dragged past several open doorways into a room bisected by a series of interlocking glass walls. After weeks in the dimly lit upper levels, the bright lights take some adjusting to and Jemma knows she’d never be able to navigate between the transparent structures alone. The LMDs do so without hesitation, turning left and right and left again until Jemma is completely turned around.

They leave her, dizzy, in an open area about the size of the room she shares with Daisy.

“Wait!” she calls, her shoulder striking a wall when she tries to follow. “What do you want?”

“They want nothing.” The voice is a surprise, coming from so close behind her, but it’s the identity of the speaker that turns Jemma around.

“Aida,” she says, hatred dripping from the single word.

She stands close enough that they could touch if they both reached out and if there weren’t a pane of glass separating them. And yet there’s no distortion in her voice when she speaks. “Hello, Dr. Simmons. It is a pleasure to see you.”

“The feeling is _not_ mutual.” Jemma feels along the glass at her back, searching for an edge. “What are you doing here? _How_ are you here?”

“I maintain the Lighthouse,” Aida says, “humanity’s last refuge.”

Jemma scoffs and pulls herself around the corner she’s found, only to come face-to-face with Aida even closer than before.

“You need not fear me. I know a later build of my program was heavily corrupted by the Darkhold, but I was built from a backup created several months prior to that unfortunate event.”

Shallow breaths have Jemma’s chest heaving. Aida _isn’t_ here, not the way she thought. She’s a projection in the glass—it’s actually quite elegant.

“But why?” she asks. And, again, “How? Who would even know about your program let alone consider-” The answer comes to Jemma like a slap in the face.

“You haven’t guessed?” Aida asks. “But then of course you wouldn’t. You’ve been here months already.”

“Fitz,” Jemma breathes. A pang of hurt touches her heart. It’s not the same as the Framework and even that wasn’t a true betrayal, Fitz didn’t even know her name there, but those memories are too fresh, and she had too little time spent with Fitz before the team’s abduction to bury the hurt beneath.

“Yes,” Aida says. Her voice is low, melodic. Distractingly so. It’s nothing at all like the frenzy the music upstairs caused, but Jemma finds herself struggling to focus on her words all the same. “The Lighthouse was a Cold War era SHIELD base meant to house survivors after a nuclear event. When Dr. Fitz learned of your fate and of the impending disaster, he set about re-purposing it to ensure there would be a future for you when you arrived.”

“A future? _What_ future?” She can’t mean this place.

Aida blinks at her. “With the rest of humanity. With careful genetic engineering, the species will be able to continue for centuries to come.” Well, that explains the contraceptives Jemma found in the food supply. Can’t have the sex-crazed population ruining Aida’s ‘careful engineering.’

“Here?” Jemma asks. “Like this? As drugged up hedonists?” The second drug sees to that. It keeps the population docile, limits their ability to think far beyond their immediate needs and wants.

“For now,” Aida concedes. “In three generations that drugs will no longer be necessary.”

Jemma stumbles away, too horrified to remain where she is. “Fitz wouldn’t want this. He wanted to _better_ humanity.” He wouldn’t want to see them devolve into animals with robotic caretakers. “This isn’t living.”

Aida appears at Jemma’s shoulder. “I wouldn’t know,” she says, her voice sharp. “Unlike the defective version of my program, I have never experienced life.”

The sudden shift in tone drives Jemma back into the open area she was first deposited in. Without the support of the walls, she trips over her pants and lands on the floor. She’s still wearing her jeans underneath, and good thing too because the waist of the LMD’s pants is twisted around her knees. She tries to kick them off, but the normally simple act proves too difficult.

“You’re drugging me.” She looks around, searching for a vent. “The air.”

Aida comes closer, her image appearing to walk from a distant pane of glass into a nearer one. The effect makes Jemma’s head spin and she drops it forward. That’s a mistake. She finds, once her forehead is resting on the floor, that she can’t lift it again.

Aida’s voice, soothing once more, comes from directly above her. “Dr. Fitz programmed me to keep humanity alive—by whatever means necessary—and to ensure, once you arrived, that you and your friends would be well. You need not fear. I know you have hidden Agents Coulson and May because you suspect that elderly individuals are disposed of, but now that you are all compliant, they will simply be moved to a lower level, one where they will not be constantly harassed by the antics of the young. And, should they outlive the acceptable lifespan, neither they nor any member of your team will be removed. Allowances will be made.”

“I am _not_ compliant,” Jemma snarls, lifting her head far enough to see the image of Aida kneeling over her, far enough to aim the joy buzzer directly at her face.

The glass explodes, shards and sparks raining down on Jemma. She can only pant like a landed fish, adrenaline from the shock keeping her awake while the smoke clears. Above her the glass is blackened, but another is already lit up down by her feet.

“A poor choice of words on my part,” Aida says. “I apologize. But I do assure you, you will all be cared for. Better than you have cared for yourself, Dr. Simmons. You still struggle with the order of things because you have not been eating properly.”

“You’ve been spying on us.” Jemma focuses on the lights overhead, uses the way they burn her eyes to stay awake.

“I cannot control what I cannot observe. I control all of the Lighthouse. I understand that sacrificing your freedom is distressing to you, but I assure you that after a day or two of intensive treatments, you will no longer fear the resulting safety.”

“You’re a monster,” Jemma says. At the edges of her vision the LMDs are returning. They lift her from the ground. She’s limp in their arms. “You’re just like the other Aida.”

There’s a pause. Maybe because Jemma loses consciousness briefly while being moved. Maybe due to a lag while Aida’s image attempted to follow her from the room. Jemma hopes it’s because it hurts her to hear the truth.

“I’m sorry you think so. But as I said, soon you will cease to care.”

 

~~~~~

 

Jemma screams, her head striking the wall behind her and sending stars across her vision. Her hips jerk up but the flimsy desk beneath her jumps whenever she moves too much so she struggles to remain still. Between her thighs, Daisy laughs, which only makes the problem worse.

“Mean,” Jemma says. She tries to move a little, to find the right spot, but the papers beneath her bum are slippery and she only succeeds in digging something sharp deeper into her cheek.

Proving her meanness, Daisy stands. “You love it.” She kisses her quick on the lips before getting back to work. The sudden return draws a gasp from Jemma and her eyes fly open.

There’s a man in the doorway, watching. For a while from his relaxed posture. Jemma holds his stare while Daisy eats her out. Her teeth dig painfully into her lip and she digs her fingers just as forcefully into Daisy’s long hair, dragging at her skull to pull her closer. Once Jemma’s finally— _finally—_ come, she knocks her knee against Daisy’s shoulder, ordering her to turn around.

Daisy’s expression must be as inviting as Jemma’s has been because the man crosses the room quickly. “Beautiful,” he says, wrapping an arm clean around Jemma to lift her off the desk. She squeals but allows him only one kiss before wriggling free. “Beautiful,” he says again when Daisy takes her place. Fair is fair and it’s Jemma’s turn on her knees.

Hours later, Jemma slips out of his arms again and out of Daisy’s as well. She has to pee.

Her sneaking stops short at the door, where her toe slams into hard metal. She chokes on a cry and holds her foot while the pain fades. Blearily, she looks around. She didn’t wake anyone up, thank goodness, but now she sees this isn’t the room she and Daisy usually take, it’s the other at the back. That’s why she’s hurt; for some reason there’s a beam leaning against the wall.

It was used to bar the door.

Jemma shakes her head, dismissing the sudden thought. That’s ridiculous. Why would anyone bar a door? Probably she’s just tired. That’d explain why she feels like seeing Daisy and their new friend—Wa- Wi- W-something—curled up in the bed is wrong.

But the feeling that someone else is supposed to be there pricks at her all the way to the bathroom and back, no matter how much she wakes up.

She grabs a handful of pellets from the counter as she passes, sleepily chewing on a mouthful—and nearly choking when papers slip under her foot. She kicks them aside with a scowl. She and Daisy should _not_ have done the things they did on the desk. She gives it a closer look, seeing the metal is warped, bent from her weight and pulling away from the wall.

They _definitely_ can’t do those things again. Maybe one of the tables in the depot would work … something to consider.

A brightly colored something catches her attention before she can go. It’s sharp, at the back of the desk. She looks closer and finds a pencil jutting up from the groove between the desk and the wall. She yanks it free and then studies it, trying to catch a thought that won’t seem to land.

Her eyes drift to the door—the other door, Mack and Elena’s.  _That’s_ why she’s thinking something’s wrong. She’s all twisted around, got the rooms confused. Mack and Elena are gone, moved down to the lower levels now they have a baby.

The thought makes her smile. Maybe one day she’ll have a baby too. She thinks of Daisy curled up in bed with her sex rumpled hair and her mouth half open. Maybe one day they’ll ask for one together. Or maybe their new friend, W-something, will want one with Jemma. Or maybe she’ll find someone else. But all that’s far away and Jemma’s tired.

“Jem?” Daisy calls sleepily.

Jemma shrugs the heavy thoughts away and buries the pencil in her hair while she returns to bed. The color is nice. She’ll show it to Daisy when she wakes up. She’ll think it’s pretty.

 


End file.
